


Constant

by amyjeane (24framesofdreaming)



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Death, Gen, General Soul-Crushing Angst, Misery, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4444664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24framesofdreaming/pseuds/amyjeane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Trigger warnings: death, serious illness, and fear of death. If any of this might possibly trigger you PLEASE take care - I don't want to upset anyone. </p>
<p>I posted this on Tumblr a while ago now so mostly posting this here for reference.</p>
<p>This is unadulterated morbid angst, so you've been warned.</p>
<p>I don't own Broadchurch.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Constant

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: death, serious illness, and fear of death. If any of this might possibly trigger you PLEASE take care - I don't want to upset anyone. 
> 
> I posted this on Tumblr a while ago now so mostly posting this here for reference.
> 
> This is unadulterated morbid angst, so you've been warned.
> 
> I don't own Broadchurch.

   

   

death sticks to you

like sand on your shoes  
soon you find it in your bed  
like salt water in the lungs  
like blood dried brown into the paint  
like the pollen of funeral flowers  
on the sleeve of your first suit jacket

it tastes  
like bitter medicine in a dry mouth  
its sound is voices grown cold and sour  
it’s the grey silence of a hotel room  
and the indifferent beep of the voice mail

it feels like a pain in the neck  
that is your feeble black joke as it spreads again to your shoulder  
and your arm  
and through your chest  
seeping out from your waterlogged heart  
and you fight it until the floor meets your head again

just once  
it looked like the pattern of mum’s old crockery  
that someone gave you as a wedding present

it rains on your dreams  
it laps at the edges of your house

death speaks its keenest words at night  
when your skin is too raw for you to be held  
when you wake in a pool of sweaty moonlight  
and no one else is there to corroborate your story  
or lie to you and say it’s not real

each morning, when you’re still alive  
your mind’s edges are soaked with it  
you walk about all day dripping black water  
but you don’t care anymore if people notice  
maybe you hope they will

death sticks to you  
like the oldest friend

   

   


End file.
